


Picture

by Mistress_of_Squirrels



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Implied Torture, Implied animal abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Violence, animal cruelty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:15:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6715921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistress_of_Squirrels/pseuds/Mistress_of_Squirrels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a one shot that explores Pickman's background and psychology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picture

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at insight into Pickman's character and what motivates/drives him. Mostly reference for Kindred, but I figured I'd post it
> 
> It's Pickman, so please mind the tags. Nothing explicit, but still may contain triggers.

He’d never been like the other children, and everyone knew it. Too quiet, they whispered behind their hands, as though that trait somehow rendered him deaf, too. He didn’t laugh like the rest or participate in their silly games, preferring solitude or the company of his mother. The whispers didn’t bother him, but Mother worried. He could see it in the way her brows drew together until a deep line formed between them as she stroked her hand over his unruly mop of dark hair.

“There’s nothing wrong with being different, Stanley,” she comforted. “You’re just special.”

Her words were unnecessary, a salve for wounds he couldn’t feel, but he suspected she knew that. They were more to soothe her than him. He smiled up at her because he knew that particular expression set her at ease. Mother didn’t understand him, but she accepted him, despite the missing pieces. It was more than he could say for his father.

“Don’t know why you bother tryna teach him that shit, Louise,” his father slurred, knocking the book from his hands and cuffing him across the head. “Kid’s too fuckin’ dumb to read.”

His face remained a calm mask as he bent to retrieve the fallen book. He ran a careful hand over the pages, smoothing out the creases. Inside, he _burned_. He was smarter than any of them, yet reading was something he struggled with.

It had taken some work, but Mother had been patient, and taught him the letters. Words were more difficult. For some reason, they jumbled and jumped around the page and he had a hard time making sense of them. It got easier when he figured out how to see them as pictures in his mind, but he still made mistakes. He _hated_ mistakes.

“Stanley’s made plenty of progress,” his mother argued. “He just needs a little extra attention.”

Mother was always defending him from his father, and it had earned her more than a few bruises. He watched the exchange, anger coiling in his gut as he waited for Father to strike her. He didn’t this time. Instead he snorted in disgust, drained the last of his bottle and tossed it to the floor as he left. The door slammed behind him.

Stanley went back to his book. He was smarter than him, and he would prove it.

* * *

 

Mother was as gentle as Father was cruel. Beauty was in short supply in the wasteland, so she tried to teach him about all the pretty things in life. Old World poetry, art, music. He saw little point in any of it, but he put up with her lessons because it was the only time he had her undivided attention.

Sometimes, she’d pack a basket with a few scraps of food and they’d sit by the river for what she called a picnic while she read to him from an old book of poems. He was the center of her world then, her sole focus. He reveled in those moments, so he played along and feigned interest.  

Until he finally understood.

He enjoyed solitude and often wandered farther than Mother liked. She nagged at him with dire warnings of danger, but it never stopped him from slipping away. One morning, he heard a commotion at the rusted wire fence that marked the boundaries of their small farm. Upon investigating, he found that one of the cats that roamed the settlement had gotten caught while trying to crawl under the dilapidated mesh.

It would have been simple enough to reach down and free the creature, but he instead he watched, captivated as it struggled. The more it thrashed, the deeper the wire claws dug. Bright spots of vivid red bloomed against the cat’s tawny fur. They reminded him of a picture of some flower Mother had shown him from before the war.

The cat yowled and hissed, the slitted pupils of it’s eyes nearly round with panic as it twisted and writhed. Time seemed to stand still while he gawked, enthralled as the animal fought for it’s life in front of him. It’s efforts gradually waned until at last the cat was still. He leaned in to poke at the matted fur.

The animal didn’t move and when he turned it over, it stared up at him, a film already gathering over it’s blank eyes.

Suddenly, all his mother’s talk of beauty made sense, but she’d been wrong. There was no beauty in life. That was gray and dull, but this…this was _art,_ perfection, and it woke something inside him that he’d always assumed he’d been born without.

He never told Mother about the cat. She wouldn’t understand, and worse, she would make him get rid of it. It took a bit of searching, but he found the perfect hiding spot for his new treasure in an old hollowed log.

Over the next few days, he returned every chance he got, fascinated by the metamorphosis of decay. It couldn’t last forever though, and that realization was met with bitter disappointment. He wanted to recapture that warm rush of feeling. He longed for it until he could think of nothing else. That night as his parents slept, he crept to the kitchen and stole his mother’s sharpest cooking knife. There were other cats.

His first, an emaciated gray tabby, hardly struggled. It was all over too soon and he found himself anxiously searching for the next. Over time, he learned patience and control, and after that, it didn’t end until he wanted it to. That decision was his and his alone. The rush of power in those moments was better than anything he’d ever known.

As the years passed, he perfected his technique and experimented with others. He learned ways to prolong the experience and how to make sure no one else ever found out.

While at home, he worked tirelessly at mastering reading and writing. It was painstaking and slow, and his mother had to calm more than one tantrum as his frustration boiled over, but he would not let his father’s drunken mockery go unchallenged. His secret hobby became his reward, and his encouragement.

Eventually, he could read entire books as long as he didn’t have to speak the words aloud. Spelling was more difficult. He needed to write the letters and see the shape of the words to know if they were wrong, and even then, it took several attempts to produce a piece of writing without errors. His mother praised his successes, but even those weren’t enough for his father.

After one particularly brutal beating, he picked himself up with deliberate slowness and wiped the blood from his mouth. He admired the way the sticky warmth stained his fingers as images of what he could create with someone like Father painted his thoughts in shades of red and black.

Those images remained as he continued with his art. He experimented with different animals. Birds, mongrels, even the occasional mole rat all provided a new palette for him to work with. Sometimes he set traps where no one would stumble onto them, but that was a last resort. He enjoyed the thrill of the hunt; watching, stalking, and finally overpowering his prey. Such was his efficiency that the hollowed log no longer met his needs, and art deserved a gallery, anyway. It took months to scavenge the materials, but he managed to build a small shack. Now all he needed was a centerpiece, his _magnum opus_. Animals simply wouldn’t do.

He was at his gallery when the raiders came. When he returned home, it was to see his parent’s home engulfed in flames. His found his father’s body first, sprawled in the tato patch and riddled with bullet holes.

Black rage flooded his veins. There was no skill in this, no attention to detail, color or composition. This was simple butchery, flat and lifeless. Father was to be _his_ and these amateurs had gone and spoiled all of his plans.

The breeze shifted, carrying with it the acrid scent of smoke and the murmur of voices. With silent footsteps, he followed the sound to the rickety shed behind the burning ruins of his house.

Two men stood over his mother’s still form. Her skirt was torn the fabric puddled around her hips, and her throat had been cut. Blood soaked the front of her dress and pooled into the dirt beneath her. He bit the inside of his cheek as his vision filled with red. His breath came in ragged gasps, his hands clenched into fists so tight they trembled at his sides with the force of his fury.

She was the only one who’d ever loved him, and they’d stolen her from him. There would never be another who accepted him as she had.

He watched at one of them men nudged her thigh with the toe of his boot. “It’s a damn shame you killed her,” the raider sighed. “Coulda kept her and had some real fun. Pretty as a picture, she was.”

“She wasn’t worth it,” the other disagreed with a shake of his head. “I didn’t think the bitch was ever gonna stop screamin’. My ears are still ringin’.”

Having heard enough, his feet moved before he was conscious of  giving the command. He drew his knife, and the next few minutes passed by in a haze of blood and adrenaline. When it lifted, the raiders lay in a heap of tangled limbs at his feet. Taking a step back, he surveyed his efforts with a critical eye and frowned. It needed something more.

He knelt down, grasping one by the hair and made a sharp, circular motion with the blade of his knife. He repeated this action once more and then twice again for the other corpse.  As he got to his feet, a slow smile spread over his face. All that remained of their eyes were empty sockets. It wasn’t his best work, but it was certainly inspired.

Stanley maneuvered his mother’s body until it was leaning against the side of the shed in a semi-sitting position and took a seat beside it.

One last picnic, and then he would go. There was nothing here for him anymore, but that was fine. His hatred would carry him to a fresh start, and he could continue the only thing he’d ever loved. He had a purpose now, in addition to a hobby.  His heart quickened in excitement.

Before he left, he cast one last glance toward the raiders and grinned.

_Pretty as a picture._


End file.
